The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2)

by Eliot Schrefer

I’m left with the fact that Father and Dad had a bunch of babies that filled them with love and hope, that those kids all died except two of us, and I just threw it in Father’s face because I want to go on an adventure.

Yarrow looks at me with his all-seeing expression and nods, meaning let’s walk barefoot along the packed dirt and have a sit with our backs against each other so together we can see in all directions and won’t we feel better then?

I know that cautiousness can be our doom just as easily as recklessness, but no one else seems to see it.

“What are they going to do, ground me?” That’s what the parents in Pink Lagoon call arresting their children. It was weird back on Earth.

If it’s not human, and it’s not malevor, then it’s some sort of alien we haven’t seen before. My breathing turns shallow. This might be the most important thing I’ve ever found. New alien life. That lived in a pond. Proof that this scouting isn’t unnecessary. That reckless, impulsive Owl is useful to the family after all.

The big mystery of our life on Minerva is how quickly it can turn from grimy to majestic and back.

Of course ambition comes with risks. The fact that I got hurt this time doesn’t mean I had the wrong idea.

“I know that you two think you have all the answers, but you’re fifteen years old, which means you’re also idiots.

Not that love is something I’ll ever experience. At least not the romantic kind. The only person around my age is my brother, and . . . no. Yarrow might be genetically unrelated, but we’re still siblings. I used to pin him down and fart in his face. Am often still tempted to, to be honest.

“If you’re not going to embrace your role as pioneer of humankind, I might have to take over,” I say. He leaves the watering can by the greenhouse’s dedicated cistern. “You’ll have to get rid of me if you ever want to be out of the gates first.” We go quiet. The idea of a life without each other is so horrifying that there’s nothing to say to it.

When Yarrow leans back, I’m shocked by what I find on his face. My brother isn’t there. It’s like he’s someone else entirely. His eyes are dark, cold, lifeless. I’ve never met anyone new before, but it’s like a stranger has suddenly dropped into our family.

Just like I’d expect him to, he gives me that goodlier-than-good smile of his, like I ought to be thanking the universe for its magnanimity rather than him for his mortal kindness. But there are still signs that he’s not himself. His brow is shiny. His hands are clenched tight. A thousand wrong things are hitting my brain in its subconscious parts, telling me that Yarrow isn’t quite Yarrow anymore. I see him see me see him. Don’t say anything, his expression says. He’s my brother, and I love him, so I don’t. But he’s also not my brother. I don’t know where my brother went.

I look up into the sky. “We might think we’ve been on normal Minerva, but we’ve actually been on cloudy recovering Minerva this whole time.” “We can expect change.” I nod. “We can expect change.” “And we can expect another comet to strike.” “And we can expect another comet to strike.”

Meanwhile, I’m menstruating. We brought plenty of cloths, I just have to change to a new one and belt it on. Not a big deal, but each time I do it I’m reminded that I’m the only human in existence who can carry a child. It’s my least favorite feeling.

My breath comes out in gasps. The light intensifies until it’s streaking across the sky, right across the night and into the horizon. It gives off a high-pitched whine, the air around it screaming. Nothing is exploding. There is no horrific heat. This is not the end. The object projects red glimmering light behind it. It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m seeing words. Words in the clouds. They repeat in a line, sparkling against the dusky sky as the foreign object continues its path to somewhere distant.

The words are: Find this beacon. Ambrose and Kodiak, come. Find this beacon. Ambrose and Kodiak, come. I look up at my father. Dad?

Sri once told me that my cockiness was the most interesting thing about me. They doomed themselves with that one. I now exaggerate my conceitedness for their benefit, and Sri exaggerates their outrage right back. It’s theater . . . I guess all romance is theater? At least it has been so far for me.

My mother is so nonreactive that for a moment I wonder whether she’s a projection that’s buffering. Then she breaks into motion. Lips pressed, she gestures to two plain chairs at a simple table. It’s like we could be in a lawyer’s office somewhere, four centuries ago. Like in, what was it called, Ohio. “What is this place?” I ask as I sit in one of the vintage chairs.

i love when ohio catches strays lmfaoooo

That’s another side effect of my childhood. I always wind up eating my fury cold.

I chuckle, too, despite the self-pity welling up. “What if I joined the Heartspeak Boys and we did a guerrilla concert in front of the ship? We could have a new song, maybe. ‘Daddy Was Alexander the Great, but Mommy Just Fed Me Lies.’”

Is everyone tempted to step into a pit, just to test if it will really be the end? Maybe the humanness comes in the resisting.

If someone did want to take me out, they could set up in some sheltered sniper spot overlooking this lot, weapon at the ready while I so predictably return from the day’s errand. At least that’s how I would kill me.

She’s particular in her browsing, selecting tender stalks of yarrow from between the tougher blades of grass.

All the connections !

The beautiful weed reminds me of the training breaks I used to spend camping. The presence of yarrow was part of why I chose to retreat here.

“I like your sheep.” I let myself look. There’s Sheep, pink and shorn, scabbing from her infestation, watching us from the relative safety of the tree line. She’s shivering. A sheep shouldn’t be shorn in these temperatures. I need to knit her a coat.

Or maybe I’ve changed irrevocably in these weeks of recovering from having my spacefarer dreams ripped away, and now I’m facing the proof of it. Maybe it took being an island for a few months to realize I don’t want to be an island forever. Bah.

He looks down at his own hands. “You noticed those? Good eyes.” Yes, my eyes are good. Or maybe I simply pay close attention to Ambrose.

I watch the rise and fall of his narrow chest, the ribs that encase that fragile heart. My traveling companion, the future of my other selves. I turn my attention back to the sky. Somewhere out there, maybe right now, millions of years away, in the void of space, a version of me is being woken up next to a version of him, these two beings who are intimately connected and nothing alike.

It arrives. The brightness between us.

I AM SOBBING

There’s a shadow at the entrance, and then Father is inside, kneeling beside Dad, like he’s praying, only his hands are clasping one of Dad’s wrists. Father—Father!—is crying into his lover’s hand. “You’re alive. I was so scared.” “It must have been absolutely terrifying, imagining a life without me,” Dad says. Father gives a wet laugh.